I sometimes forget, when I’m writing, and I’m sure people sometimes forget, when they’re reading, that this space is, to all intents and purposes, my diary.* It’s not a particularly good diary. It certainly isn’t all inclusive. In fact, I keep rather a lot of secrets from my diary. I keep secrets and fail to name names and point fingers because I do realise that I am writing to and publishing on the internet. Things can get hellishly awkward when too many people read your diary. Well, I presume they could. It doesn’t really seem to be a problem for me.
Here’s the thing about diaries, and I’ve read a few – both real and fictional, and they’re really always fictional – they are temporary possible realities distorted through a diarist’s emotional state, psychosis, neurosis, bender status, tiredness level, and, oh, about a million other petty little irritations of life. They flex reality to such a degree that they make history look stable and that, my friends, takes some doing. Or, at least, it does to me. I tend to perceive the world and shattered and oddly bound. I’m not even sure it was shattered. Perhaps it was fragmented to begin with and we just keep tying bits together to create a sort of cohesion that we’ve noticed is lacking and that makes us feel very uncomfortable. Ah, whatever. I was talking about diaries.
How seriously, I wonder, can you take a diary? I can and I do, I can’t and I don’t. The answer is as simple as that. How seriously do I take this diary? Sometimes very and sometimes not. I write when my mind is full, I write to get things out, I write when I need to do or say something even if I don’t actually know what. Sometimes I just write. Sometimes things wriggle out and wiggle away when I think I’m writing about something else, when I’m talking about the other and not this. In the end, it’s what makes sense to me, what I get out of it that is the point. All else is bagatelle. In fact, sometimes so am I.
It’s strange how this has devolved over the years and become a world of self-obsession. I suppose it reflects my outlook and my reality. Not so much a kitchen sink drama as a kitchen table one. I am embarrassed that my world has shrunk and that I am so dull and insular. It is ironic that my mind and body are in sync – both have crap that shouldn’t be there and that needs scraping out. Both leave me feeling weak and exhausted and somehow removed. No ever fixed marks here, apparently. Mind you, I was never comfortable with eternity anyway. Not nearly transient enough for my small mind.
* Yes, I did just try to see if I could write a sentence with lots of commas that made sense. I think I sort of succeeded.**
** What, you thought this note would be something about a diary and not some sort of commentary on my sentence making skills? Silly, very silly.